


Game, Set, Match

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: cliche_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-25
Updated: 2009-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But it is!" Rodney protested. "It's incredibly unfair! It's deliberately designed to take advantage of my pre-match nerves by denying me my preparatory ritual!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game, Set, Match

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cliche_bingo challenge, for the prompt 'contemporary au.' With thanks to Trin for betaing.

"But it is!" Rodney protested. "It's incredibly unfair! It's deliberately designed to take advantage of my pre-match nerves by denying me my preparatory ritual!"

"McKay," John said, stooping to tie the laces of his left trainer so that Rodney couldn't see how hard that made him roll his eyes. "This is not, and I quote, part of a conspiracy by the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club to deny you a proxy Career Grand Slam." With one last tug to make sure that his laces were securely looped and tied, John stood and patted Rodney benevolently on the shoulder.

"It's not that I'm superstitious," Rodney continued, as if John hadn't spoken at all, "it's just that I'm very aware that being in the proper mental state prior to playing a match as important as this one is crucial to success—and countless studies have shown that environment and nutrition both have a significant impact on a player's mental state. It's _science_, is what it is."

"No, you're just pissed that the rules say you're not allowed to eat a banana in the changing rooms anymore," John said. "You eating a banana is not so vital to me winning this match."

"You say that now," Rodney said darkly, "but just wait until my potassium levels plummet."

"I'll be sure to do that," John said, keeping his voice mild. It was probably best not to work his coach up into a hissing fit half an hour before he walked out onto Centre Court. He didn't want a repeat of that infamous press conference with Sumner after the Davis Cup debacle, after all. John turned to make sure for one last time that he had everything he needed in his kit bag—his favourite racket; second favourite racket; couple of changes of the slim-fitting polo shirt that were his trademark on tour, only in Wimbledon-white instead of the usual black; towel; couple bottles of water. Looked like he was good to go.

He tugged on his white parka and was just about to head for the door of the changing room when Rodney stopped him, grabbing him by the wrist. "Uh, excuse me, where do you think you're going?"

John stared at him blankly. "To... win the men's singles final and finally silence all the stupid, idiotic critics who said that I could never overcome my nerves and/or my issues with The Man in order to win the one Grand Slam trophy that has always eluded me? Least, that was what you said last night."

Rodney flapped a hand at him. "Yes, what, so watching Emmagan equal Navratilova's record may have made me a little _emphatic_ on the subject, possibly some might say _emotional_, but in this instance I—"

John peered more closely at him. There was something off about the way Rodney was fidgeting, and if John didn't know better he'd almost think that Rodney had— "Wait. Did you make a _bet_ with Ronon about which one of you would have a player win a title here?"

"I never said that!" Rodney said, but the bright flush on his cheeks gave him a way. "When did I say that? But, uh—possibly. Maybe. Sort of. Yes."

"Mc_Kay_," John hissed, and thank Christ Kenmore had gone out of the changing room already, because this was just the sort of thing that jackass would find hilarious—and the sort of thing that he'd try to use against John, out there on the court.

"What, _what_? It's an expression of confidence in you! Plus we may have been ever so slightly drunk when we made the bet." Rodney's voice trailed away to a mumble.

"You two are unbelievable, you know that?" John said, scrubbing his hands through his hair in exasperation. The next time he saw Teyla, he was totally going to plead with her to help him get back at these two. He had some incriminating photographs, he was sure she had more, and between the two of them they could embarrass the crap out of their respective coaches on every tennis fan message board the length and breadth of the internet.

Before he had time to issue any threats to force good behaviour from Rodney, though, there was a rap on the door of the changing room, and a ball boy who looked like he couldn't be any older than Madison Miller poked his head in to nervously remind Mr Sheppard that play was due to start shortly, and that Mr Kenmore was waiting for him.

"Great," John said, smiling at the kid, "I'll be out in just a second," and when the door swung closed, he prodded Rodney in the chest with an index finger and said, "When I'm playing out there, I want you to _behave_. I don't want to look up into the stands and see you exchanging bundles of pound notes with anyone, you got me?"

Rodney rolled his eyes and grabbed John by the finger. "Yes, yes, I'm very aware of how you're all masculine and commanding with your white shorts and your hairy thighs"—John choked on his own spit—"but spare me the McEnroe melodrama, please. I just wanted to give you these before you went out on court, you big distracter."

He reached out into his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of cloth, which he pushed around the wrist of John's right hand. "You wanted to give me a... wristband," John said slowly, looking from Rodney's face to the white terry-cloth around his wrist and back to Rodney.

"You _were_ listening to me earlier on, right, when I talked about the criteria for success?" Rodney's bluster would have been a lot more convincing if his face hadn't been bright red, or if he had been able to meet John's eyes. "Ritual and object association feeds into a player's mental state and in this case—"

"Rodney," John said. "I get it."

Rodney's eyes almost bugged out of his head. "But I haven't even _said_—"

And he didn't get a chance to, because John was kissing him—hard and fast and sweet with stands full of people outside impatiently waiting for his last chance at glory, the one guy who'd stood by him for ten years gasping against his mouth—and when John stepped out on the court, mouth slanted in a grin, it was to a roar fifteen thousand voices strong.

He stood toe to toe with Kenmore for the coin toss, smiling rather unpleasantly when Kenmore bared his teeth at him. "Mr Sheppard," said the umpire, "Would you like to call?"

John looked up into the stands and saw them all waiting for him—Rodney and Ronon; Elizabeth and Jennifer; Teyla Emmagan, looking more refreshed than anyone had a right to, having won a Wimbledon final in a tie-break the day before. He grinned and shrugged and called _heads_. He'd wagered and won before.


End file.
